


Traditions

by sunlitroses



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Art History, Fluff, Gift Fic, M/M, Wing Grooming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:14:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27312445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunlitroses/pseuds/sunlitroses
Summary: "I don’t think think there’s any tradition behind terrifying artists."In which Crowley proves Aziraphale's assumption wrong.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 28
Collections: Trick-Or-Treat!





	Traditions

**Author's Note:**

  * For [apocalypsenah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/apocalypsenah/gifts).



> A gift for apocalypsenah for the 2020 Trickety Boo Trick-Or-Treat exchange - I hope you like it!

“However did you possibly manage to get this amount of sand into your feathers?” Aziraphale’s exasperation washed over Crowley like a fine wine, aged enough that the vinegar had gone out of it, but still bracing on the palate.

“It was a good cause,” he mumbled, shaking the wing that wasn’t being worked on to try and get rid of the itch.

“Burying yourself in the sand so that you can leap out at tourists painting the sunset on the beach and yell ‘Blaugh,’ isn’t a good cause.” Both voice and fingers paused for a moment. “That is probably the exact antithesis of a good cause. It’s a bad cause.”

“‘N’ I’m bad, angel, so it’s good.” He nudged his wing back into Aziraphale’s hands to urge him to get on with it. “‘Sides, it’s tradition.”

“Tradition?” Fingers slid between feathers expertly, brushing sand aside and tugging just the right amount. “I don’t think think there’s any tradition behind terrifying artists.”

“Nah, Halloween tradition,” Crowley fluffed the wing as it was let go, finished, and then wrapped it around in front of himself to warm in the heat put off by the fire. Laying under a few pounds of sand for a couple of hours had been surprisingly cold. “Gotta give ‘em a little extra inspiration for the holiday.”

“I have never heard of that tradition,” Aziraphale pronounced flatly, his tone clearly expressing the additional, ‘you lying demon, you,’ without having to actually voice the thought. He tapped the other wing, as a signal to curve it up so he could get to the inner feathers.

Crowley did so and leaned back, resting his head on the perfect warmth and cushion of Aziraphale’s chest and stomach, because it was clearly the easiest way to get his left wing in the right spot.

“Okay, maybe it’s more of a personal tradition,” he admitted, “but it’s held up pretty well since 1484.”

“1484.” The mumble faded off, Aziraphale undoubtedly attempting to comb his memory for anything happening in the arts community of import that year. “All I remember are a great deal of horse paintings,” he admitted at last.

“Ugh, horses. Never got that obsession. Think the actual painting was done the next year, but Memling needed some advice. Good ol’ Hans. No horses in that painting, anyway.”

“Memling.” A shorter pause, before the fingers stopped in their work again. “ _Earthly Vanity and Divine Salvation_? That was you?”

“Just the hell bit. Patron of the arts, me,” Crowley rested his head back heavier, in smug satisfaction. “Don’t know why he added the dragon, but he got the flames _just_ right.”

“Hmph.” Aziraphale’s hands moved upwards from the inner feathers towards the arc of bones across the top, tweaking the cleaned feathers as he went. “One time five hundred odd years ago doesn’t make a tradition.”

“Course not,” he agreed amicably. “Have to keep it up for years to be a tradition.”

A hand smoothing over the top of his wing prompted Crowley to  turn it over to start on the back. After a few moments of quiet work, Aziraphale gave in. “How many works have you… inspired with this tradition?”

He grinned at the flames, an oddly shaped tongue sneaking out to wrap around his teeth. “Oh a couple. A few. Few hundred, perhaps. It’s amazing how inspiring artists find me.”

“I’m sure they do,” came from behind his wing and, for the non-life of him, Crowley couldn’t find the sarcasm that he knew must be lurking in it’s depths.

“Did especially well in the 1960s,” he poked the point further. “Beksinski got years out of that one.”

“Oh dear,” the angel’s hands fluttered along his spine and Crowley shivered. “Couldn’t you have, oh I suppose, not given him anything nicer, but something a little less – traumatic?”

“He was painting hell, angel.” It was Crowley’s turn for flatness. “Not a lot less traumatic to work with. Besides, he wasn’t doing too bad on that track even before I showed up. Anyway, not like you got a lot of room to complain.”

“I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

Tilting his head back, he let Aziraphale see his grin, teeth glinting in the firelight.

“Really,” he almost hissed. “Jean Fautrier? 1920s? Ring any bells?”

“Of course not.” Feathers were ruffling wildly, the cleaning taking place at miraculously high speeds.

Crowley snorted. “Come off it. I know what you look like when someone is determined to buy a book. Couldn’t even bless away the entire memory of that one, could you?”

“Perfectly clean, dear boy,” Aziraphale announced loudly, releasing the wing and standing so abruptly that Crowley almost toppled over backwards. “I do believe that I could go for a hot cocoa. Be right back.”

The only thing missing was a trail of dust in his wake as he vanished towards the kitchen rapidly.

Caught between indignation and amusement, which itched in almost the same way as sand in the feathers, he wrapped his other wing around himself as well and idly watched the logs pop and disintegrate.

A mug moved between him and the flames, breaking his concentration, and it took a moment to realize that there was now a drink heaped with whipped cream and what appeared to be half the contents of their sprinkle collection on the hearth in front of him.

“Thought you might want one, too.” A voice that was Not Sheepish, Because It Had Decided There Was No Reason To Be As It Made Hot Cocoa From Scratch told him. The tone changed to Entirely Casual, Nothing To See Here and continued, “I was thinking. Those tourists are a bit of a nuisance, aren’t they? I’m sure they’re trying to contribute to the beauty of the world with their art, but some things don’t need to be set down in a painting, do they? Perhaps you gave them time to simply appreciate the moment.”

“That’s me,” Crowley agreed, leaning back again to rest against his angel. “I’m a giver.”

The last dying light of the sunset faded out and the shadows spread across the waters and the beach, the country and the town. The lamp posts flickered on down the streets, jack o’ lanterns leaned tipsily on door steps, cafes doled out bracing cups of tea to shell-shocked artists who gazed blankly into the depths of their teacups to contemplate taking up new hobbies, and another day came to an end. 

**Author's Note:**

> Examples of the paintings that I had in mind are below (though honestly anything by Beksinski would work - if you want some spooky paintings, he's your guy):
> 
> https://www.wikiart.org/en/hans-memling/hell  
> https://beks.pl/produkt/zdzislaw-beksinski-obrazy-ab69/  
> https://dam-13749.kxcdn.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/10/498fdb13740129b07e73ad3f93fc997c.jpg


End file.
